


It Happened One Night

by VigilantePond



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Cold War, F/F, Golden Age Hollywood, Gunplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17585600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VigilantePond/pseuds/VigilantePond
Summary: 1950's Hollywood AU - Ilsa Faust is tasked with intercepting Cold War arms dealer Alanna Mitsopolis (aka The White Widow), but after one night, ends up falling for her.





	1. Dress

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing smut so I hope it turns out alright! Inspired by a little bit of 'The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo' and Killing Eve I guess.
> 
> a visual: https://imgur.com/a/nT2Anpp  
> video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ld4jO8ligw&feature=youtu.be

August 20th, 1950 — 11th Venice Film Festival

 

The after party was buzzing with chatter, laughter, and overly intoxicated stars. Every Hollywood and foreign actor, director, producer, screenwriter… everyone who was anyone seemed to be there. Tonight, Ilsa was only interested in one particular woman. Ilsa Faust, or rather _Ilsa Lundgren_ as she was operating under, moved closer towards her target. The blonde woman in the emerald gown sat by the bar, poised with elegance and grace. She appeared to be in the middle of an intimate conversation with an important German director. Although, if one looked closer as Ilsa did, it would be clear that while her chin was up and facing him, her icy blue eyes focusing on the clock suggested otherwise. It did not matter, as he was too engrossed with the drone of his own voice to notice that she was now counting the seconds in her head. Every few seconds her head would dip in a compassionate nod, and in a few minutes she would shake his hand and politely refuse his offer. 

Ilsa waltzed up to the counter, giving the stout man giving a coy smile. “Excuse me, Herr. Hoffmann. Do you mind if I say hello to my dear friend Alanna? I have not seen her in so long.” Had it been any other woman trying to interrupt Walter Hoffmann, he would have thrown a fit; but Ilsa was nothing but a breathtaking mystery to him and he loved mysteries. He knew every actress in the business, but he had never seen one as ethereal as her, with a bone structure sharp as glass and eyes like sapphires. Walter allowed her to proceed, making a mental note that he had to offer her a role in something later. 

Once he was out of earshot, she perched herself onto the stool opposite her. Alanna Mitsopolis — singer, 2-time Academy Award nominated actress, philanthropist, and to Ilsa’s knowledge…arms dealer. In the midst of the Cold War, it was unclear whether Alanna, known as _The White Widow,_ supported a side or if she simply sold to the highest bidder. Likely the latter. Ilsa’s job was to get information and infiltrate the broker’s affairs before the KGB did. Ilsa had spent the past month or so watching Alanna’s entire filmography, listening to her records, and her radio broadcast interviews. All for the sake of research, of course. She was as charming on screen as she was off. She also admired the way Alanna seemed to be able to manipulate others when it was necessary. It reminded her a bit of herself. 

“That man bothering you?” Ilsa asked. 

“Oh, it was tolerable. But thank you for saving me,” she mused, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Ilsa Lundgren, from Sweden,” Ilsa replied. “I admire your work.” 

“Are you an actress as well, Ilsa?” 

“Yes. I’ve only been in a few pictures, nothing big,” she blushed. “I’m much more interested in your projects. The ending of _Cloud Hill_ was unbelievable.” 

Alanna smirked,” What can I say? I was the one who pitched them the idea.” 

The two conversed for what felt like hours, about everything and everyone in the show business. This was the same protocol that Ilsa did for all her targets; engage in conversation, gain their trust, and seduce them if necessary. There was a reason why the MI6 sent Ilsa Faust — their best female field agent — on this mission instead of their other male agents even though the women in intelligence normally stuck to clerical work. It was rumoured that Alanna Mitsopolis was in fact, a lesbian — a rumour that she swept under the rug with a brief marriage to Hollywood hunk Frank Argyle. It may have saved her reputation for the moment, but Ilsa knew better. 

Out of the corner of Ilsa’s eye, she saw Frank Argyle’s unmistakable broad shoulders pushing through the crowd towards them. Alanna spotted him too, and pursed her lips. 

“Well, I think I’ve had enough of this party. It’s been a pleasure, Ilsa. Would you like to continue our conversation in my home?” Alanna asked.

The plan was working perfectly. “I would love to,” Ilsa simpered. 

“Come on, I know a quicker way out.” She led her through the mass of mingling hopefuls under the pretence that they were going to use the bathroom, and then swerved out a discrete back door where Alanna’s driver awaited with a mint green Corvette. 

Once inside her Venetian mansion, she led her downstairs to the wine cellar. Ilsa observed the environment as Alanna put a Frank Sinatra record on and poured them two glasses of Clairet. There were authentic Titian oil paintings on the walls, and a glass floor that projected an illusion of endless arrays of bottles. Not much furniture was in sight save for two paisley blue couches, a grand wooden book case in the far corner, and a series of chandeliers from the 15th century completed the spacious basement. 

The women sipped their “You know, it’s rare to find someone like you, always speaking your mind,” Alanna grinned. 

Ilsa pretended to be flustered. “When you’re nobody important like me, it doesn’t matter.”

“I guess so. With a reputation like mine, it can get quite… difficult sometimes. But tonight is different, we can do anything we like.” Alanna put down her glass, and took Ilsa by the hands, pulling her up. “Dance with me.”

Alanna put one hand on the small of Ilsa’s back, and the other on her bare shoulder; Ilsa mirrored her actions. They swayed to _All of Me_ in perfect complementary balance; both women were swift with their feet. She saw Ilsa gazing at her bookshelf, specifically one book — a collection of translated texts and poetry from Sappho.

“Are you familiar with the words of Sappho?” Alanna quipped. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s very… captivating,” Ilsa replied with a titilating look.

Alanna’s grip tightened and she pulled her closer, until she could smell the cinnamon from her breath. From both her training and personal experience, Ilsa knew that honeypot missions didn’t usually require her to _actually_ sleep with her target. There were plenty of ways to get around it; seduce them halfway and then get information out of them, knock them out, poison, tie them up, threaten to break their neck, hold them at gunpoint, the list went on. However, she happened to like the way Alanna’s cold hands crept up her torso to gently cup her breast, and how she tightened her grip on her hips. Ilsa placed her own hand along the other woman’s neck, brushing her thumb lightly across her crimson lips teasingly before setting her own lips against them. Then, Alanna pushed Ilsa onto the couch and movedthe train of her dress aside. Ilsa opened her mouth to protest — it was clear both women wanted the upper hand — but Alanna slipped her hand beneath the silky fabric and grazed along the inside of her thigh. She stopped momentarily at the touch of a cool metal object —a small butterfly knife strapped on a leather sheathe. 

Ilsa shrugged nonchalantly, “A woman’s got to be prepared at all times.” 

Alanna grinned in approval, and tossed the knife aside before proceeding to pull down her panties. She slid her fingers in between Ilsa’s legs and began circling her clit with her index finger, pressing harder each time. Then, she leaned over and began a trail of kisses behind Ilsa’s ear and down her neck, while her fingers continued moving, middle finger slipping inside. Ilsa let out a gasp, and gripped the edge of the sofa. 

“Do you want me to keep going?” Alanna whispered. 

“Please,” Ilsa breathed. She hadn’t felt this way in a very long time. Alanna Mitsopolis was simply irresistable, and Ilsa wanted more. Alanna reached behind Ilsa to unzip her, and peeled off her canary yellow gown. Her mouth moved from Ilsa’s collarbone down to her chest, flicking her tongue playfully on her nipple while her left hand fondled her other breast. Ilsa’s back arched as she let out a loud moan, as if Mount Vesuvius erupted inside her. She was well aware that this blonde bombshell was an arms dealer and she was supposed to take her down, but tonight, Ilsa had a different idea of _taking her down_. 

“Alright, my turn,” panted Ilsa. She got up onto her knees and shoved Alanna backwards, discarding her garments. There was a knife strapped to her inner thigh as well, tied to a lacy piece of fabric; Ilsa cocked her head amusingly upon discovering it. 

The corner of Alanna’s lips turned upwards, “Like you said. A woman’s always prepared.” 

Ilsa shoved two fingers inside Alanna’s mouth to let her suck on as a way of teasing her, as she ran her free hand across her body, caressing every inch of her smooth skin. Finally, Ilsa nudged her knee between her legs and plunged her head down. Starting off gentle but sure, Ilsa moved her tongue rhythmically like a painter’s careful brush strokes on canvas.

“Have you been eating pineapple?” Ilsa teased, her metaphorical paint brush now making larger, bolder strokes. 

“ _Ilsa. Fuck,”_ Alanna cried out and weaved her fingers into Ilsa’s brown curls, her legs quivering under her grasp. Ilsa only responded with greater magnitude, thrusting the tip of her tongue deeper inside. _“Give me more.”_ Nobody had ever made Alanna Mitsopolis beg like that. Now her eyes were squeezed shut, and all she could see inside her mind was a whole galaxy of celestial bodies exploding.

Eventually, they slowed down and broke apart despite the fact that neither of them wanted to stop touching each other; it was as if their skin was magnetized to one another. Ilsa reached for her dress, but Alanna’s hand flung to her wrist. 

“Wait- stay. At least for the night. Come upstairs,” she pleaded. 

Ilsa nodded, gathering her things including the knife. She caught her reflection in the sharp blade, her mind snapping back to her mission. _Focus, damn it_ , she thought, but she did not regret any of it. She decided that this worked in her favour, and there would be plenty more chances to investigate her business later. After all, she was _Ilsa Faust_ and no man or woman could stop her from getting what she wanted. The only problem was — what was it that she wanted now?


	2. Blue Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilsa finds Alanna's plans for an exchange, but things don't go as expected and Ilsa begins questioning herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading, I know there aren't many people following this pairing. Sorry there's not that much Ilsa/Alanna interaction this chapter but lots more spy stuff. I had fun searching up all the cool spy technology and ciphers they had back then. Next update will have more of them together

The morning sunlight flooded through Alanna Mitsopolis’ sheer creamy curtains, warming Ilsa’s cheeks and incidentally awakening her. The other woman was still sound asleep, messy blonde curls hanging in her face, smudged mascara from the night before still clinging to her delicate eyelashes. _What did arms dealers dream about?_ , Ilsa thought. Surely not as many nightmares as herself. She remembered every detail from the night before, but she almost wished that she hadn’t. The pleasurable experience may have complicated her mission, but Ilsa wasn’t about to go astray. She plucked one of Alanna’s silky pink robes off a hanger and wrapped it around herself, and then decided to investigate for intel. 

The colossal mansion could take _days,_ even _weeks_ to search thoroughly, so Ilsa had to be strategic. She slipped into the cream coloured bathroom, figuring that since this wasn’t Alanna’s main place of residence and she had just flown in the day before, she likely didn’t spend much time in the other rooms. There were bottles of French perfume lined up neatly on the marble counter, and a vase filled with white roses. Of course, it was safe to bet that half of the so-called perfume was probably just lethal chemicals… just like the collection of lipsticks in the corner; Ilsa had her own fair share of lipstick pistols. Next, she picked up a small silver compact mirror, laid aside next to the bar of soap. It felt out of place in the carefully arranged setup. Ilsa flipped it open carefully, making sure that she wasn’t leaving obvious fingerprints in the pale pink powder. She tilted it at different angles, until finally she could see the tiny letters concealed inside the mirror. Ilsa smirked to herself; these mirrors were such a useful tool since men seldom suspected that women would be capable of doing what they did. 

The message was written in the Caesar Cipher — nothing Ilsa wasn’t too unfamiliar with. 

_“Wzhqwbiluvw ri dxjxvw wzhqwbrqh krxuv hafkdqjh dw vdlqw pdunv zlwk nje”_

“Twentyfirst of august twentyone hours exchange at saint marks with kgb” 

Ilsa produced her invisible ink pen from her clutch, and quickly scrawled the message onto a piece of paper which she then slipped into a dead drop spike. When she got the chance later, she would put the spike into the loose brick in the church where her handler Atlee would pick it up.  

Suddenly, she heard a gentle knock at the door. 

“Ilsa, are you in there?”  

She snapped the compact shut swiftly, and returning it to its original position. 

“Yes, just a minute,” Ilsa responded. She flushed the empty toilet just for measure, and then opened the door. 

Alanna was dressed already, in a dark blue velvet slip dress. Her smile widened upon seeing Ilsa, and greeted her with a kiss. “Good morning, gorgeous.” 

“Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you,” Ilsa said.

“Nonsense. Last nice was lovely,” Alanna touched her arm affectionately. 

“Yes, yes it was.” 

“Anyways, I have some costume fittings, screen tests, and meetings to attend to around the city today. Busy, busy,” she sighed melodramatically. “I’m afraid we can’t get dinner tonight, but tomorrow perhaps?”

O _f course you can’t. You’ve got a meeting with the KGB tonight,_ Ilsa thought. “No worries. Here’s the address for my hotel; you know how to find me*,” she said and handed her a note. 

“Would you like me to call my driver to take you back to your hotel?” 

Ilsa shook her head, “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.” 

She picked up her yellow dress from the night before, and turned her body slightly to get dressed. Ilsa let the robe fall to the ground, fully aware of Alanna’s lustful gaze taking in every inch of her from behind. Once she was dressed, Alanna escorted her to the door, and gave her another quick hug. 

“I’ll call you very soon,” Alanna promised. 

Ilsa took a detour on her way back to her hotel, passing by the small white chapel that was her and Atlee’s dead drop location. It was a hidden spot shrouded by tall olive trees, unbeknownst to the passer-bys. She wedged out the rusty red brick and put the spike inside conspicuously. Ilsa wasn’t sure what the MI6 planned to do with Alanna or her clients after intercepting the exchange, but the shorter duration she was in Ilsa’s life, the better.  

A couple hours later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. “Room service,” the voice called. 

Ilsa hadn’t called for room service, but she had been expecting a message from Atlee. She opened the door and welcomed in a tall bellboy in a dark blue costume pushing a trolly.  

“Thank you. That will be all,” Ilsa said. 

Once he retreated, she opened the silver lid and revealed a folded up note. She held it against a light and squinted at the writing from the dry transfer ink. 

_45.434118, 12.340849 hsllg gl proo ru mvxvhhzib_

Those were the coordinates for the Ponte del Sospirl — Bridge of Sighs, and _’Shoot to kill if necessary’_ written in Atbash cipher. The bridge was about a minute away from St. Mark’s where they were meeting, so Ilsa was quick backup. There would be other MI6 agents at the exchange, ready to apprehend the parties involved. Even though Alanna was just the broker, there was still a high chance that she would attend to the meeting in person.  

Later that night, Ilsa went to the Bridge of Sighs as planned, wearing a dark green swing dress, custom designed to have a camera hidden in the brooch, in case the hidden cigarette camera was not enough. She had matching leather gloves, which also happened to be concealing a 0.38mm pistol inside. To the casual Venetians strolling along the bridge or down below enjoying a gondola ride, she appeared to be just another American. With the film festival going on, nobody kept track of who came along. 

Ilsa checked her wristwatch. _20:58 — any minute now._ The canal water rippled gently from the gondolas drifting by. It seemed particularly eerie on this misty summer night, with reflections of a glowing green light. She peered through her binoculars and scanned the vicinity; she spotted the British Intelligence strategically scattered around the square, and there were a couple of civilians taking late night strolls, but nothing more. She felt a pang in her chest, and her heart began to speed up as she grew more worried at the no-show from the White Widow, or any of her clients. _Something was wrong,_ she thought. 

At 22:05, she walked inconspicuously over to Atlee who was seated on a park bench pretending to play with some pigeons while smoking a pipe. It was risky for them to be spotted together in public, but Ilsa needed more insight and explanations. Dead drops took too long, and every telephone wire could be tapped. She sat on the far side of the bench, and opened up a book just for show. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Atlee huffed in a low voice. 

“I need to know. What happened with the exchange?” Ilsa whispered. 

Atlee scoffed, “I should be asking you. After all, you’re the one who gave me false information-“

“It wasn’t _false_. I’m sure of it,” Ilsa frowned. 

“I have just been notified that the Russians only received half the package tonight.” 

“So an exchange _did_ happen?” 

“Yes, but it was on the other side of Venice.” 

“That’s impossible,” Ilsa mumbled. 

“I have to say, that is quite… interesting. I expected you to be better, Faust.” 

Ilsa stiffened and clenched her book tightly to stay put. “Are you questioning my loyalty or my ability*?”

Atlee drew a long breath from his pipe, and then exhaled . “Tomorrow. Stop her from delivering the rest of the nuclear weapons and then I will decide.” 

“You’re sending me alone this time?” Ilsa wasn’t sure if she should be flattered that they decided she was good enough, or offended that they didn’t want to waste other resources after tonight’s false alarm, and thought she was disposable.

“I thought you were capable.” 

“I am,” she snapped. 

“Good. Kill her if you have to. No further instructions.” 

Ilsa closed her novel and stood up, marching away as quickly as her pumps could carry her.  Her mind was in scrambles; did she get the time and location wrong? Was there another plan somewhere else?  She was determined to wipe the smug smile off of Atlee’s face tomorrow, no matter how she felt about Alanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * quotes taken from Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation of course


	3. Summer Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alanna invites Ilsa over for lunch

_Ilsa was standing… nowhere. Well, she was certainly_ somewhere _but all that she could see around her was white. She couldn’t even make out whether the room was three dimensional with her hazy vision; she seemed to be floating in blank space. “There you are,” Alanna’s familiar voice said sweetly. Ilsa whipped around and saw her standing in a billowy dress, soft light glowing around her like a goddess. She took Ilsa’s icy cold hands and held them in hers, the two of them hovering in silence. All of a sudden, the scenery changed and Ilsa found herself on a bed with her wrists handcuffed to the post. She tugged and yanked as hard as she could, but felt no pain at all. Ilsa tried calling her name, but no sound came out of her mouth no matter how many times she tried. “Shh…” The Widow whispered, crawling towards her like a spider. She brushed her lips against her inner thigh, and Ilsa slowly spread her legs apart in response. It was as if someone had taken out all the contents of Ilsa’s mind and replaced them all with this woman. Alanna…Alanna… Alanna…._

_Riiiing…. Riiiing…._ The red rotary phone beside her awaited her.

Ilsa Faust jolted awake, nearly banging her head on the lamp above in the process. “Fuck,” she mumbled.  “Hello?” she composed herself quickly. 

“Good morning, dear. It’s me. Would you like to come around for lunch today?” Alanna’s voice was muddled through the receiver, but it was her without a doubt. 

“Yes, I’d love to,” she replied calmly. 

“Perfect. I look forward to seeing you.” 

“As do I.” As soon as Ilsa hung up the phone, she buried her face in a pillow and groaned. Of course, this was not the first time Ilsa Faust dreamt about her targets. It was just that usually the dreams involved her murdering them, or vice versa in nightmares… but her subconscious never took the salacious path before. Although, none of her previous targets were as remotely alluring or charming as The White Widow. Ilsa saw aspects of herself reflected in the arms dealer, and it was rare to find someone on the same level of the playing field as her. _I need to get it together_ , she thought, _and a bloody cold shower._

On her way to the mansion, Ilsa stopped by the chapel and checked the dead drop location for Atlee’s new message. According to his sources, the meeting for the next exchange was at the Scuola Grande di San Rocco at 18:00. Ilsa scrunched the note into a ball and then tore it into shreds. Especially after last night’s misfire, she couldn’t fail again. 

Upon her arrival, Alanna’s maids led her into the colossal dining room with a table longer than the Tiber River. There was a gothic chandelier above, but it wasn’t necessary with the abundance of natural sunlight engulfing the room. True to her alias, The White Widow’s furniture and decor was all in a crisp, snowy white harmonized with flecks of gold. 

She looked perfectly in place with her golden hair bound in a tight chignon, and a sheer white sheath dress, not too unlike Ilsa’s vision of her from the dream. Alanna beamed at the sight of Ilsa, and embraced her immediately. “I’ve missed you,” she said, and placed a light kiss on her cheek. 

“It’s only been a day,” Ilsa laughed. She brought her mind back to her task at hand. “How were your screen tests and meetings yesterday?” 

Alanna gave a coy smile, “Not bad, actually. Not bad at all… I’ve got another audition coming up. In fact, would you like to go over some lines with me? There’s a part that I’m struggling with…”

“Sure, what is it?” Ilsa asked.

“It’s for a film called _An American In Paris_ and I’m reading for the French girl Lise. Here, you can read for Jerry the American veteran.” 

Despite her cover as an actress, Ilsa had not acted before unless she counted all the other times she took another identity as a disguise. She gulped and hoped that Alanna wouldn’t see through her facade. 

“Well, I’m no Ingrid Bergman but I can try.” She cleared her throat and attempted to deepen her voice slightly to sound like the character, making it sound rich and husky, “Everything’s going to be all right. I know it is,” Ilsa read. 

“Jerry…I won’t see you anymore,” Alanna said. 

Immediately, the playful glint from her eyes disappeared and was overtaken by a serious focus. Ilsa had watched her act before, from all the hours of research of course. To be on the receiving end of it was something that watching from the silver screen simply couldn’t prepare her for. Each time she spoke, goosebumps ran through Ilsa’s body. 

“What do you mean?” Ilsa replied, following the script. 

“I’m getting married,” she said. There was a hint of fear in her eyes, and Ilsa wondered if she was channelling memories from her fake marriage with Frank Argyle. 

“You’re getting…” Ilsa peered at the script, and her heart began to race at the sight of the next line. “You’re in love with me, aren’t you?” 

She knew it was only acting, and Alanna did too… so why were they both holding their breaths? Ilsa didn’t notice how long Alanna had been holding her forearms, and suddenly their faces were merely millimetres apart from touching. Alanna was slightly taller than Ilsa; she gazed down at her, eyes flittering around as if she was taking in every detail. She was simply in awe of Ilsa’s cheekbones, her stormy blue eyes, soft pink lips, and refined nose; Alanna could have spent the entire afternoon counting every freckle on her face. Cupping her jaw with her hand, she tilted Ilsa’s face towards her and closed her eyes. 

All of a sudden, they heard a knock on the tall wooden doors and the two women jumped apart, snapping out of their daze. Ilsa’s eyes widened and she dropped the script in surprise while Alanna smoothened her hair and dress.

“Right, lunch is here,” she declared. 

Two butlers marched into the dining room with trays of food, including a bottle of Chardonnay in their hands. There were endless baskets of crisp European bread and plump red strawberries and cherries, complete with a platter of the finest cheese. Although Ilsa sat on the opposite side of the long table, she was deluged by the pungent aroma of pasta from the other end. 

Alanna raised her glass of white wine. “Cheers. To the silly little thing called love,” she smirked. 

“Cheers,” Ilsa replied. 

She tipped the glass to her lips, instantly noticing the fruity taste of her drink, perhaps fruitier than usual. She waited for the usual rich acerbic aftertaste, but instead found it becoming sweeter the longer it was in her mouth. Ilsa frowned, and then began to panic as she realized what was happening. All her training had prepared her for many instances of this, but she had let her guard down. Slowly losing control of her consciousness and thoughts, she shakily grabbed onto the pristine white tablecloth. The room around her spun out of focus, and soon enough the last thing Ilsa remembered seeing was a blurry image of The White Widow standing over her.


	4. Venice Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape. The final showdown. Ilsa confronts the White Widow; will she let her feelings get the better of her or will she get the job done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I've never written action scenes before so here is an attempt... Hope you enjoy. It's kind of angsty.

Ilsa let out a muffled shout as she regained consciousness, her eyelids struggling to flutter open because they felt like heavy drapes. The first thing she noticed was a bundled, silky white handkerchief inside her mouth. She spat it out in disgust, and let out a hacking cough; the handkerchief exuded a familiar rosy fragrance which she previously found comfort in. Her wrists were tied behind her chair with a fray piece of rope, which Ilsa had no trouble getting out of. Although, when she’d pictured getting tied up by Alanna, this wasn’t _quite_ what she had in mind. Nonetheless, betrayal was a frequent part of her job and there was a reason why Ilsa was on of the top agents of the MI6. The drugs had already worn off, but occasionally there were lingering sparks in her vision. Ignoring the metropolis of bemused thoughts in her head, she focused on the task at hand — Get out, stop the Widow. _How long had it been?_ The grandfather clock in the corner read 17:30. She had half an hour to get to the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, no problem. 

She yanked on the golden doorknobs but they did not budge, as she expected. Then, she ran over to the windows to survey the height from the dining room. It could not have been more than 45 to 50 metres high, and Ilsa had jumped off much worse before. Better yet, the first floor roof was wide enough to support her landing, and one of the lights could support her rope for long enough to let her swing down. Ilsa lifted up the chair that she was previously bound to, and hurled it towards the window. The glass shattered immediately and rained down onto the smooth, wooden floor like cacophonous piano keys. Just as she planned, Ilsa leaped onto the roof — heels off of course. The coarse texture from the roof poked at her feet, but it was more sensible than keeping them on. As she wrapped the rope around the lantern tightly, it let out a rusty squeak, threatening to snap off any minute. Hoping for the best, she tiptoed over to the edge and sprung off while grasping the rope tightly despite the friction burning into her palms. Luckily, the lamp lasted long enough to maintain her body weight. Now, all she needed was a ride to the Scuola, and fast. 

Ilsa managed to reach a busier part of the city with her brisk gait, and surveyed the crowd. A young man with a slicked back pompadour and a black leather aviator jacket leaned cooly by a tree, smoking under the shade. A flaming red 1950 Lancia Aurelia sedan was parked next to him, as if it was his greatest trophy to show off. She wandered towards him, feigning bewildered glances around to pretend that she was looking for something. 

“Excuse me, do you know where the Doge’s palace is?” Ilsa asked him. 

A grin spread on his face, his eyes hungrily eyeing Ilsa up and down. “Sure I do, baby. How about this, I’ll take you there if we do some back seat bingo-“

Ilsa swung her fist so quickly that he didn’t have time to prepare and collapsed immediately. Apparently, one punch to the head was enough to take him out for the rest of the afternoon. She climbed into the driver’s seat, keys still in the ignition and slammed the accelerator with her still-bare foot. Ilsa’s fervent ambition combined with her dexterous driving skills whisked her to where she needed to be within a matter of time. 

The Scuola was spectrally empty, which was odd considering it was not _that_ late yet. She spotted four brawny men outside the entrance, each dressed in fine suits. To the regular onlooker, they were simply formally dressed gentlemen, but Ilsa spotted their concealed guns immediately. _Atlee’s backups? No, he wanted me to do this alone._ These were the White Widow’s men. 

She crept from behind, keeping her body in the shadows and drew closer to the first man. Ilsa jumped onto his back and squeezed her thighs around his neck, twisting her body around in a single swift motion that ended in a broken neck. The others were a considerable distance away, and didn’t know what had hit them yet. She attempted the same with the second guard, but he turned his head a second too early to see Ilsa. Still, she grabbed his arm as he attempted to reach for his gun, and flipped him onto his back. She placed him in a chokehold as the other two men sprinted over. Fighting came naturally to Ilsa, like a dancer that choreographed every move on the go. She was nimble to dodge their punches, and returned their attempts with kicks to the jaw. By the time there was only one man left standing albeit with a busted nose, Ilsa had bruises all over her body but she wasn’t going to back down now. He lunged towards her, ramming her down to the concrete. Ilsa grunted, feeling the drugs’ side effects from earlier slowly drifting in. _Come on._ She exhaled and lifted her right leg to drive a sharp kick into his side, bringing him down with her. For the final blow, she gripped her legs around him again and used her upper body strength to hoist herself up and consequently snapping his neck. Ilsa stumbled to a stand, and took his gun which was deserted a few feet away from him. She only hoped that she didn’t need to use it. 

Tranquility. The inside of the Scuola was dead silent; not even an organ was playing. Had it been another time, maybe Ilsa would have appreciated the intricate gold patterns on the ceiling bordering the majestic oil paintings of St. Roch, or the symmetrical arches lining each window. Right now, all she could focus on was the woman in white standing at the end of the hall.

“I wondered when you’d show up,” Alanna mused, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. She held a silver briefcase in one hand, which likely contained the materials for fission weapons. Atlee had mentioned a rumour about a hydrogen bomb in the making, but it could have been anything inside. 

Ilsa kept her finger on the gun’s trigger in her pocket and approached the other woman slowly, with caution and curiosity.

“You knew.” It wasn’t necessary an accusation or a question; just a statement of something that simply was. 

“Of course, I have people in every level of the government,” Alanna laughed. 

“How long?” Ilsa demanded. 

“Since you approached me that night in the film festival… recognized you right away. I’ve seen every dossier from the MI6, I never forget a beautiful face.” 

“Then why did you-?” Ilsa wasn’t quite sure how to finish the question. _Why did you fuck me? Why did you make me fall in love with you?_

She shrugged nonchalantly, “Oh, I guess I just can’t resist a strong, stunning woman.” 

Ilsa’s mouth was dry; she didn’t know what to say. _Was any of it real?_

“By the way, you took out four of my men. Impressive,” Alanna said. 

“Well it certainly wasn’t difficult,” Ilsa retorted. 

“No matter. I do prefer… girl on girl action,” the broker smirked, flicking out a silver knife with her free hand. 

Ilsa raised the gun slowly; she aimed it _very_ precisely. After all, she pretty much never missed.“We don’t have to do this, you know. Hand it over, call it off,” she pleaded. 

“And where’s the fun in that?” Alanna cocked her head and pretended to pout. 

“Or come away with me. With both of our abilities combined… imagine the possibilities,” Ilsa remarked. 

The two women stared at each other in silence for a moment, as if they were choosing their next words carefully. Maybe it was the drugs or perhaps it was the fatigue from fighting; Ilsa felt like her mind and body were slowly drifting apart, like the figures in the painting above her with their bodies suspended in muddles of clouds.

Finally, Alanna spoke, “You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. Strangely enough, I’ve only known you for such a short amount of time and yet… I think I lo-” 

Ilsa pulled the trigger.

The loud _bang_ alarmed them both, especially with the echoes bouncing off the walls. Ilsa’s aim was a sure shot — which is why she planned it to be exactly 2 centimetres away from Alanna’s neck. The suitcase hit the marble floors as her hand flew to her neck to check for red. Ilsa pounced over it like a tiger catching prey, and snatched it into her hands. Alanna drove the knife towards her, but she used the suitcase as a shield.

“Sorry. It’s just the job,” Ilsa muttered, kicking her backwards. 

She proceeded to hold herself on top of her, aggressively this time. Alanna flailed beneath her, but Ilsa tightened her free hand around her neck. She watched her cheeks grow from rosy pink to bright red, and her crystal blue eyes widening in alarm. Again, in her fantasies this was not quite how she imagined it would go. Alanna’s mouth was gaping open as she gasped for air. Ilsa leaned her face towards Alanna’s. Even drenched in sweat, with a scratched-up face and unkempt hair from fighting, Alanna knew that Ilsa was still the most alluring woman that she knew. 

“Goodbye,” Ilsa whispered, pressing her lips one last time onto Alanna’s mouth. 

Suitcase in hand, Ilsa Faust scampered out of the Scuola before Alanna could collect her breath. Either way, she had a feeling that she wouldn’t be chased anyway. The sedan was still there where she parked it, and headed to her meeting point with Atlee. 

Venice was full of paintings, but right now Ilsa couldn’t help but think that her view from the car looked exactly like one, maybe even better. No level of skill or the finest brushes could capture how the cotton candy blue mixed with the mellow orange sunset made her feel. Normally, after she finished a mission she’d feel exhilarated, but tonight she felt empty — like she was Venice itself and somebody had drained out the entire Grand Canal. Maybe it would kick in when she presented it to Atlee, she thought. Ilsa continued her drive, maintaining an iron grip on the steering wheel and not letting go for anything. Even as a tear trickled down the side of her face, she let it run. It trailed down her cheekbones and over her lips — it was salty. Ilsa occasionally craned her neck behind her to check if anybody was following her, but there was not a soul on the road but Ilsa, much to her… _reassurance?_ Or was it _dismay?…_ Ilsa wasn’t sure. She loosened her grip on the wheel and eased off the accelerator slightly. She thought, _might as well enjoy one last ride in Venice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not this is not the end I have at least another epilogue chapter planned...


	5. The Lucky One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet speech

Budapest

March 29, 1951 

Ilsa kicked off her shoes and sank into her hotel bed. As satisfying as it was to fight the Hungarian mafia, Ilsa was ready for a quiet night in and a drink… or two. She poured herself another glass of whisky, downing it in one large gulp. Then, she flipped on the television out of boredom, and suddenly she heard somebody announce, “The nominations for the best actress are…” It hadn’t occurred to her that The Oscars were tonight. The awards show had crossed her mind before, but the thought must have slipped away while she was busy with her current mission. Ilsa sat up straighter and kept her eyes fixated on the screen. “… Miss Bette Davis, _All About Eve_ , 20th Century Fox; Miss Alanna Mitsopolis, _Unwilling Lover,_ Paramount…” She hadn’t heard that name in 7 months; it was enough to send ripples of chills throughout her body. The rest of the presenter’s voice was drowned out by now, and Ilsa felt her heart pounding against her chest.

“The winner is…” Ilsa could feel the tension in the RKO Pantages Theatre all the way from Berlin. She wondered how Alanna felt right this moment. Was she nervous at all? Did she care? 

“… Alanna Mitsopolis, _Unwilling Lover_.” The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the she made her way on stage. Ilsa wanted to cheer along too, but she sat frozen on the bed. Alanna wore a white fur shawl with an icy blue gown made of silk that enveloped around her slim physique. It was fringed with gold lace and flared out at the bottom almost like a parachute. Tonight, her golden hair was coiffed and curled with care, and appeared to have a touch of strawberry red; she must have dyed it for a role. She glimmered under the stage’s spotlights, taking light steps as if she were floating on water. Ilsa remained breathless and unblinking, watching the elegant woman with the gold statuette. It was a strange experience to watch her on television now, after all that had happened. Ilsa thought she figured her out well enough before, but knowing Alanna’s superb acting skills it occurred to her that there was no way she could ever know for sure what was real and what was not. 

Finally as the applause died down, she began to speak. “Thank you,” she said, staring straight towards the camera, as if staring straight at Ilsa. “Thank you for this award, and for all the support, I am so incredibly honoured to be on this stage right now. Thank you to my producer, Mister Harrison Cameron and my director Mister Maxwell Girard, and to my fellow actors: John, Eve, and Celia. You all make me a better actress than I ever thought I could be.” Alanna paused to take a deep breath, and the camera zoomed to a close-up. The tears slowly welling up in her eyes were visible now. “And there is a special person out there, whom I think about each day.”* 

Ilsa felt her leg cramp up; her entire body overflowed with tension. She brought a shaky hand towards the television screen and reached her finger over where the little pixels of Alanna’s face was. As soon as she touched it, the static in the screen sent an electric spark to her finger; Ilsa gasped as she jolted back.

“I know that she is watching right now… well, hopefully,” she chuckled to herself. “And I just hope that she knows she means the world to me. Thank you all. Goodnight.”* When Alanna walked off the stage, she held onto the escort tightly, her legs shaking slightly beneath her. 

The camera moved on and panned to the next presenter, but Ilsa’s mind replayed the moment over and over again. _Don’t be silly, it could have been anyone,_ Ilsa told herself, rubbing her finger. Nonetheless, she reached into the drawer for a pen, and began writing. 

——————————————————————————————————————

Los Angeles

“You have fan mail, Miss Mitsopolis,” Alanna’s manager Tony said. 

“Oh? Lovely,” her lip curled. _Good to know the fans still love me_ , she thought. Mentioning a woman in her acceptance speech was risky, but it was a risk she was willing to take. Of course, her management was not too happy about it. They were likely arranging another faux marriage right now. 

The cream coloured envelope was mailed from Hungary, but there was no name written on it. Inside, there was a crinkled piece of paper with carefully written letters; the penmanship was in pretentious loopy cursive yet messy at the same time. 

 

_My dearest Alanna,_

_Congratulations on your award. You are certainly very talented, but of course you know that already. I’m thinking of you too. Have a drink for me._

_Much Love._

 

Next to it was a violet — a known symbol of love given by lesbians and bisexual women. She flipped the paper over, revealing the corner of the poster for _An American in Paris_. Of course, Alanna did not end up getting the part; the role went to Leslie Caron instead, but she understood what this meant. 

“Tony? Book me a flight to Budapest right away,” she ordered.

“You have a meeting with Alfred Hitchcock tomorrow,” he protested. 

She rolled her eyes, “Hitch can wait.” There were more important things to attend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *These lines are heavily inspired & adapted from The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid which was one of the biggest inspirations for this fanfiction. The novel’s characters are also referenced in Alanna’s acceptance speech ;) Also note that the Oscars weren’t televised until 1955 but I didn’t want that big of a time jump so I decided to be historically inaccurate there.


	6. Feeling Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilsa finally gets a visit from Alanna. The conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending this story the same way I started it... with some smut.. enjoy.

Budapest, Hungary

>  
> 
> _ National Enquirer _
> 
> _ April 2, 1951 _
> 
> _ Who Is Alanna Mitsopolis’ Mystery Woman?  _
> 
> _ Frank Argyle Tells All About Tumultuous Marriage!  _

  


_Thump._ The noise disrupted Ilsa’s mid-shower thoughts. Now she was beginning to regret not staying at the safe house longer. She slowly shut off the water and tentatively stepped out of the shower. _Shit_ , she thought; her clothes were in the other room. She wrapped a white terrycloth towel snugly around her and reached for her revolver. Ilsa Faust — always prepared. She pressed her ear against the door and heard faint shuffles on the carpet. Once it stopped, she flung open the door and pointed her gun at the intruder. 

The White Widow was sitting on Ilsa’s bed. Actually, right now her identity was simply Alanna Mitsopolis. She wore a pristine white blouse and a plain green skirt, with her golden locks hanging loosely around her shoulders instead of in a usual chignon; she seemed more vulnerable. For once in her life, she was not playing any role as an actress, singer, philanthropist, or part time arms dealer. She was just a girl, in love. 

“Hello, darling,” she said.

Ilsa lowered her revolver upon seeing Alanna, though her finger was still hovering over the trigger. “What are you… I see you got my message,” Ilsa said. Her hair was dripping onto the carpet, but she did not care. 

Alanna nodded. “And you got mine.” 

“To be honest, I wasn’t completely sure you were talking about me in your speech.”

She scoffed, “Who else could it be?” 

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe you’d found another woman,” Ilsa said sheepishly. 

Alanna gave a small shrug. “Okay, I _did_ dabble in Marlene’s sewing circle, but I wasn’t _with them_ when I was… you know.” She bit her lip. “My mind was elsewhere.” 

Ilsa was silent for a moment, studying the wide eyes in front of her. “Tell me. Was any of that real?” 

She walked towards Ilsa and gently placed a hand on her arm. “Of course. Now I know you have no reason to believe me, which is fair. I swear on my life, if I am lying you can blow my fucking brains out.” She wrapped her hands around Ilsa’s grip on the revolver and aimed it at her own forehead to prove a point, but Ilsa grabbed it and tossed it aside. She already knew; it was a rhetorical question. 

Ilsa couldn’t wait any longer. She tugged the fabric of Alanna’s shirt towards her, wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist. Their foreheads were pressed together, close enough that she could smell the cinnamon on her breath. Immediately, their mouths met, lips fitting together like puzzle pieces. Alanna tugged off Ilsa’s towel in one swift motion, and it wasn’t before long when their clothes were nothing but piles of debris around their feet. They stumbled towards the bed, Ilsa giving a vigorous yet playful nudge to lay Alanna down. Normally Alanna liked to dominate over every situation, but around her, she was willing to succumb. Ilsa laced her fingers into Alanna’s hair; she left a trail of kisses down her neck before sucking gently, it was sure to leave a love bite tomorrow. 

“My god, I missed you so much,” Ilsa whispered. She proceeded to kiss her stomach while fondling her breasts. She could feel Alanna’s heart pounding beneath her chest, and the way it quickened as Ilsa worked her way downwards, lips grazing the damp insides of her thighs. 

“I’m sorry for drugging you and — _Oh_ ,” Alanna moaned. She couldn’t think about anything else right now, except the enchanting woman between her legs. 

“No hard feelings,” Ilsa replied, and then ducked her head to continue. She devoured her like a wolf at a gourmet feast, not hesitating to suck on her clit or let her teeth graze against her body, and then pressing her tongue harder each time. She had craved this insatiable moment for so long.

“Choke me,” Alanna croaked. 

“What?” Ilsa had choked many people in her lifetime, but never in a sexual context before. 

“I said _choke me_ ,” she ordered. She sensed Ilsa’s hesitancy, and reassured her, “Safeword is _Venice_.” 

Ilsa obeyed, clasping her hand around Alanna’s throat, and squeezed hard. With her other hand, Ilsa’s fingers danced around the folds, teasing as Alanna wrapped her legs tighter around Ilsa. She thrust one finger inside, and then two, rapidly moving up and down. Alanna’s back arched as she let out a pleasurable wheeze, her muscles pulsating; she lost count of how many times she came. Ilsa released her grip and lied down next to Alanna, pressing kisses onto her collarbone. 

“Now let me,” Alanna urged, climbing on top of Ilsa. She enjoyed being on the receiving end, but she also missed having the upper hand. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want _you._ ” 

“Anything specific?” 

“Wait a minute…” Ilsa reached over for her gun, and emptied out the cartridge, letting them sprinkle to the ground one by one. She raised her eyebrows and made a thrusting motion before handing it over.

Alanna’s lips curled into a frisky grin. “You naughty little spy.” She pressed the cool metal tip of the gun between Ilsa’s legs while playing with her hard nipples, and leaving kisses all across hertorso. She rubbed the barrel faster against her clit, building up friction before pushing it inside. “Cum for me.” 

“ _Alanna_ ,” Ilsa panted. _What a pretty name_ , she thought. She could shout it all day; _Alanna Alanna Alanna Alanna_. The feeling rippled through her body, even her legs were shaking. She dug her stubby nails into the other woman’s back, their bodies clinging together like their lives depended on it.

Finally, Ilsa put it aside and laid her head on Alanna’s chest. They held each other in silence, hearts still racing from the bliss. 

“What happens for us next?” Ilsa asked. She only wanted to think about the current moment, but the future was inevitable. 

Alanna drew in a breath from her cigarette and stroked Ilsa’s still-damp hair from her shower earlier. “I’m focusing on my acting career and stepping away from the family business for a while, my brother Zola will take care of most of it,” she replied, referring to the arms dealing. “It won’t get in our way anymore.” She traced her finger down Ilsa’s back, lazily drawing patterns while Ilsa kissed her shoulder in return. 

“And the tabloids?” 

“Fuck them,” Alanna . They’ll forget about it when something more newsworthy comes up.” 

Ilsa Faust meant to fall in love. The plan was to get in, do the job, and leave… but now she was in too deep to let go. She sat herself up and took a a deep breath, “You could come with me.” 

“What, join the MI6?” 

Ilsa gave a slight nod. 

Alanna chuckled. “No, I couldn’t possibly.” She leaned over to pick up her clothes, and swiftly buttoned up her blouse. 

“Are you leaving?” Ilsa’s face fell. 

“I can’t stay here for long, but this isn’t goodbye,” she reassured her. Alanna kissed the worried creases on the unconvinced woman’s forehead. “Not to worry, we always manage to find our way back to each other.” 

Ilsa pulled her into an embrace, burying her face into Alanna’s shoulder. She caught one last whiff of her aroma, an amalgamation cigarettes, cinnamon, and roses; she wanted to hold onto her forever, but Alanna began to pull away. “Wait—,” Ilsa croaked. “I love you.” 

“I know you do.” Their lips met again, lingering for longer than before.

With that, Alanna Mitsopolis gave a quick pining glance and slipped out the door before she could change her mind. By the time Ilsa got to the door, she had disappeared from the desolate hallway, as if she was never here in the first place. Fortunately, she no longer had the same worries as she did in Venice; Ilsa was certain they would meet again. It was only a matter of waiting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading until the end!! I don't think I expected this to be longer than 3 chapters initially but it's been a lot of fun writing this. 
> 
> PS all the chapter titles are songs, and this last one was the song that The White Widow sang in the club at Fallout but the scene was cut, I think.


End file.
